


Barnes & Noble

by zinke



Series: Barnes & Noble [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, Johanna,” he says casually as he flips to the title page and begins to write, “what did you think of the book?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s not for me,” she corrects quickly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s for my mom. Her birthday is next week. I’m Kate.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barnes & Noble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fictorium’s ‘Rewriting History’ AU comment ficathon in response to the following prompt: _Johanna Beckett never dies_.
> 
> Thanks go to the ever-fabulous gabolange for the quick and dirty beta.

She’s about five people back in the line when Rick first spots her, standing patiently with a copy of ‘Storm Fall’ clasped to her chest. It’s kind of hard _not_ to notice her; as the only one of the bunch who isn’t either greedily reading his latest novel or staring dreamily at him, she can’t help but stand out.

Of course, the fact that she’s absolutely gorgeous doesn’t hurt.

Reluctantly, Rick pulls his attention back to the grinning, middle aged man standing before him and forces himself to listen to the man gush about how Derek Storm changed his life. Two days into his twenty-six city book tour (one for each of his twenty-six best sellers – Paula’s idea, not his) and he’s already grown tired of listening to the same stories, the same overly effusive praise night after night after night.

Books tours are like that; monotony piled on top of monotony, all scheduled to within an inch of its life. Which is why a little distraction – no matter who or what or why – is always welcome.

Even more so when said distraction happens to be wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans, cropped leather jacket and three-inch black stiletto heels.

Rick feels himself sitting up a little straighter as she steps forward to place her copy of ‘Storm Fall’ on the table. “And who should I make this out to?”

“Johanna.”

“So, Johanna,” he says casually as he flips to the title page and begins to write, “what did you think of the book?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” she corrects quickly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s for my mom. Her birthday is next week. I’m Kate.”

“Well Kate, be sure to tell Johanna happy birthday from me,” he says, adding the sentiment at the bottom of the page. “Does that mean you’ll have to wait until she’s finished to read the book?”

“Actually—“

Out of the corner of his eye, Castle can see Paula glaring pointedly from him to the line of people still waiting, making a less-than subtle shooing motion with her hands. Gritting his teeth, he turns back to Kate and gives her his most winning smile. “You know what? I’ll make one out for you, too.”

“Oh no, really that’s—”

“It’s no trouble.” He plucks a spare book from the perfectly aligned stack at the edge of the table.

She puts out a hand to stop him, her fingers trapping his against the dust jacket just as soon as he sets the book on the table. “Just the one is fine.”

Rick stares down in astonishment at the sight of their hands lying crisscrossed over the silhouetted image of the Brooklyn Bridge, then lifts his gaze to meet hers.

Abruptly Kate withdraws her hand and, after a moment’s indecision self-consciously slips it into her coat pocket. “To be honest, I’ve never been all that into mystery novels.”

Rick can practically feel his eyebrows crawling right off his forehead. “What?!?”

She shrugs apologetically.

“But…detective fiction has been a part of our written culture for centuries. _Bao Gong An_ written in China at the height of the Ming Dynasty. ‘The Three Apples’ from Scherezade’s _One Thousand and One Nights_. Wilkie Collins’s _The Woman in White_. Poe’s _Murders in the Rue Morgue_ …” He sends her a pleading look. “ _Please_ tell me you’ve at least read some Poe?”

“I think I remember studying ‘The Raven’ in high school.”

“Studying? _Studying_? No, no, no; prose like that needs to be savored, rolled over the tongue like a fine wine. Read by candlelight, with the sound of—”

“Rick?” He feels a hand squeeze his shoulder as Paula leans in to speak softly in his ear. “Don’t you think we ought to be moving things along?” Straightening, his book agent smiles thinly across the table at Kate.

Blushing slightly, Kate picks up her copy of ‘Storm Fall’ and flashes him an apologetic grin. “Thanks,” she says raising the book in acknowledgment as she turns to leave.

“You’re welcome,” he calls after her, his eyes following her progress as she makes her way through the book stacks towards the front of the store.

“You’ll thank me later,” Paula remarks as she waves for the next person in line to step down.

Later comes and goes as Rick sits perched on the edge of the signing table watching Paula and her assistant pack the leftover books back into their boxes. “I’m still not thanking you, by the way.”

“For what?”

He gives her a pointed look.

“Oh,” Paula drawls. “The doe-eyed brunette with the sultry voice and the legs up to here.”

“No; the dedicated fan who—”

“Has never read a page of one of your books in her life and just so happens to be standing right over there?”

Rick swings around, eyes scanning the still-crowded store until finally he spots her, standing by herself in the Art and Architecture section perusing the shelves.

Hopping off the table, he swipes a copy of ‘Storm Fall’ from the nearest box and hurries off before Paula can try to stop him.

“You know, you really should read at least _one_ of my books – for your mother’s sake, of course.”

Her initial look of surprise slips easily into one of amusement. “Of course,” she replies with only a hint of indulgence as she places the book she’d been looking at back on the shelf and takes his.

He studies the graceful lines of her profile as she opens it to read the inside flap. “If you don’t mind my saying so Mr. Castle,” she remarks, oblivious to his attention, “it was pretty stupid to kill off your most popular character.”

Engrossed as he is, it takes a moment or two for Rick’s brain to process what she’s said. “Ah-ha! So you _have_ read it!”

She shakes her head. “I read the review. Janet Maslin seemed to think it wasn’t half bad – for a pulp fiction mystery.”

“Pulp—half bad—” he sputters indignantly. “Well, it’s got to be better than,” he reaches over her shoulder to pull the book she’d been looking at off the shelf, “‘Nomadic Art of the Eastern Eurasian Steppes’.” He flips the book open and looks over the photographs spread across the page. “Actually, this guy here looks pretty cool. But my point is—”

“Richard?” a disembodied voice calls out across the stacks.

Rick’s smile vanishes. “Oh no.”

“Richard? Where are you?”

Kate eyes him with mounting concern. “Who is that?”

He turns to her with a panicked expression. “Whatever she says to you, I’m sorry.”

“Why—?”

“There you are,” his mother proclaims, turning the corner only to stop short at the sight of he and Kate standing together, books in hand. “And you’ve found a friend.”

Rick doesn’t bother to hide the way he rolls his eyes in response. “Kate was at the signing earlier, mother.”

She gives Kate an all-too-obvious once over. “You don’t have to explain anything to _me_ , darling.”

“You know,” Kate says, slipping the additional copy of ‘Storm Fall’ he’d given her into her bag, “I really should be getting home. Thank you for the book, Mr. Castle.”

“Of course. My pleasure.”

They stand and smile at each other a few seconds longer – just long enough for the silence between then to have become _something_ – and then she is gone.

“Who was that?” Alexis asks as she comes up beside him, a stack of paperbacks in hand.

Martha answers before he has a chance. “A woman from your father’s book signing who seems to have captured his ordinarily wandering attention.”

“You should ask her out, Dad.”

Rick smiles, wrapping an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “It’s not that simple, sweetie.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He trails off, realizing that he has no answer to give her. “I’ll be right back,” he finally says, pressing the Russian art book into his mother’s hands.

Ten minutes later he’s helping Kate into a cab on the corner of Warren and 12th, a crumpled Barnes & Noble receipt in his pocket with her phone number written across the back.

 

*fin.*


End file.
